


Liver, Heart, and Soul

by Lunarium



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cannibalism, Culture Shock, Female Friendship, Gen, Minor Character Death, The Avari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 08:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17783990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: Caranthir hears of a Moriquendi tribe with a rather unusual practice. He wishes to seek their demise immediately, but one of his daughters selects a different path.





	Liver, Heart, and Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Silmarillion Writers Guild's January 2019 challenge. I've had this story stowed away for the longest time! I used from the Sitcom bingo card following prompts: a very special episode, We need a distraction, You did what?, Dumbass as a point, and running gag.

It began with a visit, one meant to be a simple gathering between two brothers. Ladrengileth had not meant to spy on her father and uncle’s conversation, but her sharp eyes picked up on how Amrod was slow in responding to his older brother’s embrace, and how the smile had not met his eyes. 

Even her father had noticed the shift in demeanor. 

“Tell me, what has made you so glum in our meeting?” Caranthir asked when they were settled. Ladrengileth leaned in from her hiding place, crushing the books under her body. She remembered her uncle as one of the smiling twins, and definitely one of the more jovial children of her late grandfather Finwë. Amrod’s hair was dark red, almost a burnt brown, which offset his bright grey eyes an eerie glow. His face was pale, paler than she remembered. Whatever her uncle had witnessed in his journey to her father’s house, it had disturbed the normally endearing and noble man. 

“I have lived and worked with many of the Moriquendi, as you know, and especially the Laiquendi who reside near our abode.”

“Yes, you do adore those Avari.” Her father’s words, spitting out the term _Avari_ like venom from a serpent’s fangs, making her stomach coil with unease. While it was no secret that Lord Caranthir looked down on the Moriquendi of Beleriand, his knack of resorting to such foul derogatory terms, especially before a man who worked and had good relations with them, was inexcusable. 

Yet ever the diplomat, Amrod simple bowed his head and pretended he had not heard the term. 

“Yes, as you well know, the tribes which live on these lands are many,” he said. “There are far more tribes and different cultures than what we were accustomed to in Valinor. In my time working beside them I have come to know the names of some of the Moriquendi who live beyond the Ered Luin, far east of these lands, stretching as far as the lands where the first elves had woken. Rumor is there are still elvenkind who reside there. 

“But I have come to learn of a people who live beside the Rathlóriel near the Haladin. A very small group; I do not believe the king of Doriath had heard of them, as they had traveled from the eastern seashore independently far after the sundering the tales tell— _Brother, they eat their dead!_ ” 

The words clearly were sitting on the tip of his tongue, begging to spill out from the moment he had come by this knowledge. Silence rang throughout the hall, cold and echoing. Although she couldn’t see her father’s face, she could just picture the offense and anger. Anything peculiar by Noldor’s standards was not something Lord Caranthir ever tolerated.

“They do _what?!_ ” 

Heat reached Ladrengileth’s cheeks as her father’s voice rose, echoing in the hall. Caranthir drilled his brother for more information. 

“Unacceptable!” Caranthir said when Amrod had given all that he knew. “We will have to cleanse the area! The Haladin live beside them! If they practice such despicable customs so near these mortals, it will not be long before they or the Haladins themselves desire the flesh of the mortals! Gwinor, bring me my blade!” 

“As you request, sire,” spoke his servant as he presented him with the requested item.

“No, no, you dimwit! Not the ceremonial blade!” Lord Caranthir cried before turning back to Amrod while Gwinor turned back to fix his mistake. “We must put an end to this act of savagery immediately! Gather your men from the south! Soon we will ambush them and rid the lands of these _Avari_!” 

“Their traditions may not be any more despicable than your own actions were on Alqualondë,” Ladrengileth said under her breath as she slipped away. She had been born and raised on the undying lands, and her mentor there had been Nerdanel. Like the wise artisan, she too had been taught the importance of learning minds rather than mastering them; and so she hid in the corridor, shrouded in the shadows, and thought deeply, her books pressed against her chest. Finally she came to a decision on what she must do. 

Today’s lessons will just have to wait for another time.

*

“Lord Caranthir will have your head mounted beside these Avari on his halls,” Gorfuinel’s warning echoed in Ladrengileth’s mind as her horse Turant galloped along.

Her journey had been uneventful for the most part, but as she neared the Rathlóriel, the steadiness of ground had melted into uneven swampy terrain, forcing her to dismount and walk by foot. It was an unusual area for it to be taken as the dwarf road from Nogrod and Belegost west into Nan Elmoth, where the Moriquendi who lived within did trade with them (Ladrengileth knew of him only in the scathing stories her father often told of the elven blacksmith.) 

_I suppose marking a road as unattractive as this would keep Elves and Men alike from meddling into your business_ , she thought before turning back. She replied in a low voice, as if she could reply back to her elder sister far back at home, “I do not fear my father. His anger is as legendary our family’s name, but often one finds it is just hot air blowing out from between his teeth.”

She knew what Gorfuinel or even Tirnelien, her other elder sister, would say to that. They would say, _“I believed that when I witnessed him murdering over two dozen elves by his own hands on that horrible night in Alqualondë!”_

“I do not fear my father,” Ladrengileth repeated as she mounted Turant again. “I am merely coming here to learn more of the people who live on these lands.” 

Rain poured down, reducing visibility, but she kept her horse on the path. The horse neighed, her tail swishing behind her in refusal to go further, but Ladrengileth urged her on, though her heart ached in being merciless. 

“Not much longer, Tura—”

A lightning bolt pierced the darkness and Turant took off; Ladrengileth held on tight. They sped down until Turant’s hoof snagged against something in the slippery and uneven ground, overthrowing Ladrengileth in the process. 

Hitting the ground, covered in the mud, she turned onto her back in time to see her horse, whining madly, as her hoofs came down towards her chest. 

She barely had time to react, the gasp caught in her throat, before something swept down and pulled her away from being trod to death. Her savior pulled her aside, taking her to shelter away from the storm. 

In a daze, Ladrengileth glanced about, watching helplessly as Turant galloped away from sight. 

“Now I’ve done it!” she hissed to herself. 

A little gasp beside her averted her attention. Her savior was a woman, about her age but taller. She studied Ladrengileth as if she had seen a ghost. 

“You even sound like her,” she said under her breath before catching herself, noting that Ladrengileth must have understood her. She cleared her throat and straightened her back. “You are of the Noldor.” 

She spoke Sindarin with such a thick, heavy accent that Ladrengileth almost could not understand her. 

“That is correct,” Ladrengileth said and introduced herself, although the woman did not seem to care from which house she belonged. 

“All the Noldor have those eyes, like you might light these forests with one glare.” 

“I suppose we may appear like that,” Ladrengileth agreed with a nod. “May I ask for your name? I heard mention of my resemblance to someone.” 

“Ah.” At that, the woman’s face softened as if revisiting an old sorrow. “Your resemblance to my sister is striking. She had died long ago when we first passed over the river. But I know her spirit follows me everywhere, for it was I who…” 

Her voice tapered and she did not speak further. The longer the silence followed, the more Ladrengileth suspected the reason. 

“You must have heard of us,” the woman went on. “The A’quentak. We are few in number but our practices for our dead are strange even among the other Eastern elves. I am Dhalenki.” 

“Ah, I believe I have heard of elves with such rituals for the dead,” Ladrengileth said, “though I do not know all of the details, and I hesitate to learn from second hand tellings, as I feel misunderstandings can easily happen between cultures.” 

Dhalenki smiled. “You are wise among your people. Yes, the A’quentak do eat their dead. But it is our way of keeping our deceased at our sides at all times. We are a nomad people, and so we do not have one burial spot for our dead. Every member of our people are vital to us, but if we cannot visit their burial site, it gives us great sorrow. We are not required to consume the entire body, just the heart and liver for that is what binds the soul to the physical world. After death, with no other realm to escape to, where can they go? What can protect them from the Black Foe? 

“So when we eat the heart and liver, we take in their very soul into our bodies. This way, the Black Foe cannot claim them for himself. Our deceased can continue to live among us, inside us, and they protect us from harm. With generations upon generations, an entire host of my people have come with us to the West here. They protect the very lands itself from harm. The mortals here live in peace, untouched by the enemy. We never consume an elf outside of our people, neither a Man nor Dwarf nor any other living thing who is capable of free will.” 

_Ah_ , Ladrengileth thought. _They do not believe that the souls of the departed go to the Halls of Mandos, or Mandos does not accept the spirits of the Moriquendi, so their spirits are left to wander in Endor. This is a method the A’quentak had found to solve the problem of their houseless spirits._

“What would happen if you stopped the practice?” Ladrengileth asked. 

“We are a community. Together, the living and the dead, we create a net of protection on the land. Breaking that could be disastrous.” 

“Your customs do not seem so strange now after you’ve explained it,” Ladrengileth said. “I am, if anything, more intrigued by your culture, if you are willing to have company to wait out the storm, and to indulge me on more questions I have. I have not yet thanked you for saving my life.” 

Dhalenki smiled. “I would love to have you as company and a friend. You may stay with me for however long you wish.”

*

Turant appeared again, galloping past Caranthir as he suited up for his attack. An unsteady silence rang as the others watched the horse, looking harassed and whining, drenched from the rain and mud, trod back to her stable without her rider.

“Why do you suppose this horse is about?” Caranthir asked in concern. “Had Ladrengileth taken her out? Why and where? Shouldn’t my daughter be attending to her studies?” 

“My lord, she was not in at the library when I had passed there,” Gwinor said. “All of her books were on the table but not Ladrengileth herself. I supposed she was answering to nature’s call, but she had not returned when I passed by there again, nor when you sent me back to fetch another item for you. Either that is some foul gastrointestinal ailment she is suffering from, or she had snuck out.” 

“Snuck out!” Caranthir roared. “To where? To the savage elves?!” 

Gwinor shrugged. “Perhaps?” 

“Then we must make haste! Cursed my youngest’s curiosity! There is no telling if Ladrengileth is in danger! Gwinor, fetch me my blade—no, _no!!_ not my ceremonial blade, you dimwit! We are at war!” 

“If I may speak, my lord,” Gwinor said. “Perhaps these elves mean no harm at all? For all we know, their customs could be their way of keeping order in the world, and if we wipe them out, a curse could befall these lands.

“Perhaps your daughter, being of a brilliant mind, is merely seeking to understand them. Perhaps it is best to wait until she returns.” 

Caranthir growled. “Foolish talk! Get me my sword, my battle blade, and speak no more of this! By the end of the day there will not be any more of these savage elves living on these lands!”

*

Ladrengileth was received by the other A’quentak with warmth and good food. There was much she wished to learn about them, for they were so few in number even among the other Moriquendi. A friendship formed over campfire as Dhalenki answered question after question without hesitation, eager and pleased to share a culture that had previously been kept in the shadows away from the other elves out of lack of understanding.

She taught Ladrengileth the ritual for the deceased. It was deeply sacred to the A’quentak, and deeply cherished, and showing her the steps was a sign of respect and trust. The very fact she was showing Ladrengileth this early on in their friendship was as sign of how much she had grown fond of her in that small amount of time, an honor Ladrengileth felt deeply. 

“And now you may perform this rite on myself should anything happen to me,” Dhalenki said, “for I feel close to you as one would to a sister, and I would be honored to protect you in the afterlife.” 

“Oh, do not speak so gloomily!” Ladrengileth laughed, but a shadow fell over her heart, remembering her father’s threats. 

She pondered if she should warn Dhalenki and the others, for she had come to learn of their culture entirely for this very reason, to avoid her father’s wrath tearing through the land. The storm outside had long abated, and if her father had waited for it to end to strike, she had very little time left. 

But no sooner had she thought this, one of the wardens rushed towards Dhalenki. “We’re being attacked! An army of the neighboring Noldor are marching this way—they’ve attacked some of our men with arrows and sword!” 

“No!” Ladrengileth gasped. She never had the time to warn the A’quantak. No time to run back and explain everything to her father—would he even have ever understood? 

“No! My father—that fool!—he’s making a terrible mistake!” 

Dhalenki ordered for her people to pick up arms and defend. Then she grabbed Ladrengileth’s arm and led her towards a secret passage to hide. 

“Why are you protecting me?” Ladrengileth cried out. 

Dhalenki smiled sadly at her. “I lost one sister. I will not lose another.” 

Then the stone door drew shut, shrouding Ladrengileth in darkness. The muffled cries and battle outside were swallowed by the stone. 

Despite how unnerved she was, hearing each cry and wondering if it was Dhalenki, Ladrengileth respected her wishes and remained hidden until the battle was over. When it became silent, she pushed against the stone door and crawled her way back to the open. 

Her heart clenched at the sight, and she fell to her knees, weeping bitterly at the pool of dead A’quentak before her. Then drawing a deep breath, she searched for Dhalenki, not daring to speak her name lest her father or one of his men were about. 

She found Dhalenki on top of the dais where they had earlier dined, and she cradled her in her arms. Faint footsteps approached. 

“Ladrengileth? Your father sent me to search for you.” 

Tension seeped from Ladrengileth’s shoulders when she recognized the voice. She studied Gwinor and sensed he did not agree with her father’s decision. 

“Gwinor…it was all a misunderstanding,” Ladrengileth said. “They only eat parts of their dead because they believe it will keep their deceased loved ones close by and that it will bless their lands from Morgoth. They would never harm anyone. I intend to keep with their traditions. This is my friend and I will not dishonor her people’s ways. She has taught me the ritual. Fetch me a blade—no, not a battle blade, please. A ceremonial blade. Thank you.” 

She held the item in her hand, her lower lip quivering for a moment, before looking up again. “Please, Gwinor, distract my father while I perform the rite.” 

“A distraction?” His eyes widened for a moment before giving a nod. “Understood.”

He glanced about himself for some inspiration, then finding a goblet with still some drink left inside, he picked it up and ran outside. His sudden drunken voice rang with the raucous laughter outside. “So there I was, nunvil sauce on my bosom…” More laughter followed. 

Ladrengileth sighed in gratitude and looked about herself. There were so many dead. Would just consuming the heart and liver of one be enough? 

Wiping the tears away, Ladrengileth got up and collected her friend in her arms then washed her and prepared her for the ritual. She laid her out on the dais and kneeled before the body and then said the prayer, as perfectly as she recalled in their language, the memory of it still fresh in her mind. 

Then she took the blade to her friend’s chest, and that was when the raged bellow carried throughout the tent, startling her right out of her wits that the blade flew from her hand. 

A hand gripped her wrist so tight it nearly crushed it and she was lifted off the ground. 

“Already have the savages brainwashed you?” Caranthir spat in Ladrengileth’s face. “Come back home now, daughter, and you may be forgiven!” 

“No! You don’t understand! I must consume the heart and liver or these lands will become cursed!” 

Her father’s eyes widened with fear and contempt. “You have become sick, daughter! I will destroy the people who have done this to you!” 

He ordered for the entire land to be set ablaze amidst his daughter’s protests, laughing madly as he watched the flames reflected in her wide, fear-filled eyes.

*

The following morning arrived with the stench of blood and anguished cries, for the Men who resided in the lands of Thargelion had been overtaken by a great army of orcs.

“It is exactly as the A’quentak prophesied,” Ladrengileth said as she turned away from the sight. Though Caranthir had expected each word to drip from his daughter’s tongue bitterly, filled with disgust towards him for his actions, they were instead filled with resignation. 

He peered towards the destruction and cries for help from the Haladin, and he pondered his daughter’s words. Gwinor the fool presented the ceremonial blade to Caranthir without prompting, and it was then that Caranthir noticed: this blade was a new tradition among the Noldor, wrought on Helcaraxë to mourn those taken by the merciless ice. All the times Gwinor had handed it over to Caranthir was no foolish mistake but a tongue-in-cheek comment. He too foresaw the consequence of Caranthir’s wrath. 

“This fool had a point, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Nunvil" -- borrowed this from Voltron: Legendary Defender canon. Nunvill (two l's) is a sort of drink. Also that line is taken from a vine.


End file.
